


Wipe The Red

by asteroidhearts



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Action, Dark, F/M, Loki is nice, Love, Romance, Sad, i guess love idk, okay so she's cool but she kills people and she likes killing people, she ENJOYS killing people but that's not the main point of the story, she's a goodie but she kills people, trigger warning: blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-16
Updated: 2016-01-16
Packaged: 2018-05-14 06:33:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5733079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asteroidhearts/pseuds/asteroidhearts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“But what if you meet the right man, who worshiped and adored you?  Who’d do anything for you?  Who’d be your devoted slave?  Then what would you do?”</i> </p><p>  <i>“I’d pity him.”</i></p><p>  <i>-The Addams Family (1991)</i><br/> </p><p>Nobody has ever seen her, yet everybody fears her.  She strikes fear into the hearts of men and women alike - literally - and enjoys it.   Call her bloodthirsty, and she will give you an enormous smile before carving one upon your face.</p><p>She does not fear anyone nor anything, but Loki wants to teach her otherwise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wipe The Red

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER ALERT: blood. it's not described vividly, but it IS mentioned/emphasized a couple times.
> 
> i'd had this in mind for several days now, tbqh. i was like "yo what if there was a girl who ENJOYS the sight of blood? not necessarily in a vampire type of way but in this-feels-so-good kind of way. like, an incredibly merciless assassin with an interesting thirst for blood. & what if... LOKI FALLS FOR THAT GIRL".
> 
> i can remember someone somewhere (in The Avengers, probably) referring to Loki as being bloodthirsty. i just kinda thought that it'd be pretty cool to see someone who's even MORE deserving of that title paired with him. how would that compare & contrast? how would that fare in terms of two seemingly identical characters interacting with one another? (aaand i sound like an essay prompt)
> 
> also i was on pinterest & somehow ended up on The Addams Family quotes. that said, TWO LINES in this fic are directly based from a TAF quote. DISCLAIMER: i do not own TAF. this is not for commercial use.
> 
> in this fic, Loki is repenting as best as he can. i like fics where Loki is shown as someone who's capable of changing into a better person, but those fics are pretty rare. the OC is Ukrainian, bc we all know that the best fictional assassins come from Eastern Europe.
> 
> enjoy & leave some love, loves <3

_Most species_

_Bare their teeth_

_As a threat_

_As a display of aggression_

_Of leadership_

 

_It is a reminder_

_That these_

_Clenched jaws_

_Can and will_

_Open your_

_Yielding throat_

 

_I want you to think of this_

_The next time I smile_.

 

- Beth Pecora

 

 

 

 

This is how she will kill you:

 

First, she will put you in a headlock, ensuring that your head is cradled snugly against her chest.  Her arms are small – thin, even – but that is only an illusion.  Her biceps will lock you in a choke-hold that will leave you breathless in mere seconds.  She could stop there, of course.  She could lay you on the cold, damp ground and leave you there unconscious.  But she will not.  Where would be the fun in that?

 

Second, she will whisper sweet nothings into your ear.  It’s a habit; what can she do?  She will relish the pleasant sound of your staccato gasps against her forearm as she plants sugary phrases and pretentious wooing inside your ear canal.  She will speak in English, sprinkling some of her Ukrainian mother tongue here and there.  By the time she compliments you on your choice of necktie, you will be so out of air that your legs begin to give out under you.  She will then guide you down to the ground slowly, carefully, with ease and precision.

 

Third, she will pull out the knife stored in a secret compartment of her boot.  She will rest it just right under your jaw, in that soft part of your neck where shivers sent by a soft kiss and a sharp blade feel the exact same.  She will recite a short prayer in Ukrainian as she deepens the knife into your neck.  It will be a swift slit; the blade will ring against your skin as it tears your neck open, sewing your life close.  Blood will seep out in an easy, constant flow, painting her hand maroon.  The corners of her rouged lips will lurch upward at the sight.

 

She will then plant a kiss on your forehead.  Her beautiful humming of an old Ukrainian lullaby will be the last thing you hear, if you haven’t already drifted away into the arms of Death.

 

This is why they call her the Blade.

 

Like many legends, no one knows if she is real.  After all, nobody had a clear picture of who she really is, or even how she looks like.  She lives between the scrutinizing whispers of a patron to another; she takes an amorphous form in the heads that turn whenever they hear the name society has given her.

 

 _Blade_.

 

She laughed the first time she heard of it – a blood-curdling laugh that sent lethal frost down a fragile spine, that made knees tremble, that reeked of sick and pure pleasure.  Still, she preferred to be labeled as the Blade than her birth name.  Her birth name was weak, a remnant of a time long past when she was but a young girl, full of hope, free-spirited.

 

Then she grew up, and she rid herself of things that are for children.

 

Nobody knows how she came to work for the counterintelligence organization that is known on classified documents as SHIELD, or how she became associated with Colonel Nicholas J. Fury and, eventually, the Avengers themselves.  It is as though she uses a different entrance as the rest of the agents, for no one sees her come in or out – yet she is always there.  Her photo-less file merely states her name ( _Anna Andriyivna Andreichenko_ ), place of birth ( _Odessa, Ukraine_ ), date of birth ( _1985 February 17_ ), and education ( _unfinished_ _primary schooling_ ).

 

Those, and the augmenting list of people whom she has killed.

 

Steve doesn’t like her apathy and her lack of basic human emotions.  He is the type of man who, guardedly, assumes the best in people, but she is the anomaly.  The odd one.  The tragic exception to the captain’s trusting nature.  He firmly believes that she poses a real threat not just to the cause, but for those fighting for the cause.  Steve has seen her once inhale the metallic fumes of blood from the ruptured neck of a kingpin.  It is an image he can’t erase from his mind.  She isn’t clinically psychotic, but the things she did and does are beyond words.

 

“I don’t think that you should take her into the field with us again, Fury,” he ranted when the Director proposed a second joint Avengers mission with her.  “The people I work with focus on the task at hand, not on the blood inside them.  She kills like it’s a hobby.  She has a grey morality.”

 

“There is no such thing as a grey morality, Steven,” she interrupted, emerging from nowhere.  Steve froze like a deer caught in the headlights when he heard her Slavic-laced slur.  “Black and white do not exist.  There is only red, and no one has the courage to spill it, not even Natalia.  You _will_ need me to do it for you.”

 

Natasha bites her tongue every time the Blade addresses her by her old name or, sometimes, her _full_ old name.  The Ukrainian doesn’t believe in having that filter between her brain and mouth – whatever comes out, comes out.  They had been one and the same occupation-wise, but Natasha changed.  The girl doesn’t recognize that.  It’s a blessing that the girl doesn’t spend that much time at Tony’s tower; the last thing the tower needs is vibrant crimson painting its neat white walls.

 

“I know you, Natalia Alianovna Romanova,” she would say after one of their many bitter arguments.  Natasha would grind her teeth.  “I know who you are, and whom you _pretend_ you are.  Your mask is sheer like gossamer to me.”

 

The rest of the team has varying opinions.  Just like Steve, Thor is guarded regarding the Blade.  Asgardian culture respects its women, especially those who are not afraid to fight, but her ruthless thirst to witness blood irks him.  Bruce flat-out stays out of her way.  Clint flat-out hates her.  Everyone expected Tony to entertain her aloofness, but something about her bothers him.  He doesn’t know if he _likes_ her or not; he doesn’t even know if he enjoys her overall existence.

 

But there _is_ one person who doesn’t seem at all fazed by her.

 

“Of course _he_ likes her,” Clint commented.  “They’re both out to get anyone, and they don’t care who ends up getting hurt.  It only makes sense that they click.”

 

“My brother has changed, Barton,” Thor defended.  “I do not know what she stands for; her alignment is just as unclear to me as it is to you.  But I assure you that Loki is not at all like her.”

 

Thor was correct on all accounts.  Compared to his latest behavior, Loki is a changing man.  His self now can be comparable to how he was before... everything happened, only much quieter and more thoughtful.  He has kept to himself majority of the time, befriending every book he could get his hands on at the tower.  Still, he couldn’t help himself from being oddly enamored by the girl.  When she first stepped into the tower, he could smell the red on her hands.

 

He has resolved to wipe it ever since.

 

But she doesn’t seem to want it smeared.  In fact, she wears her kills like medals pinned to her chest for eyes to gaze upon and fear.  Her very presence demands respect, and she gets it.  Each step, each slow wave of a hand, every moment she tilts her head in scrutiny – everything about her is calculated, echoing with _demand_ to obey her every desire.  She seduces potential victims without having to open her mouth.  When her eyes flutter, a hurricane erupts somewhere in the world.  She is aware of how much power she has, and every time she smiles, it feels like a lion baring its teeth before mercilessly attacking its prey.

 

He has grown to take pleasure in seeing her aggressive smile.

 

The Blade would never admit it, for she believes that such things are foolish, but there are times when she cracks.  Just a tiny spider leg crack in her porcelain framework.  While she is quick to mask the breakage, Loki never fails to notice.  He would be the only one willing to acknowledge it - and to her face, too.  After all, Barton was right as well, though partially.  She would never admit it, but she finds solace in the Asgardian’s querulous tendencies, even when he refuses to call her anything but her real name.

 

Tonight, another crack has appeared.

 

They stand silently in the solitary balcony of the tower, facing the city buzzing with life.  Cars honk below, and exhaust smoke mixes with the breeze.  Her hair waves in the wind, strands obstructing her eyes.  She doesn’t bother to tuck them away.  Loki looks at her like he is looking at the stars.

 

“Speak to me, Anna,” he says quietly.

 

She doesn’t.  Loki knows that she wouldn’t speak when asked to.  She likes to do things _her_ way and on  _her_ choice.  But he also knows that she will bare herself to him soon, and once again he will be the proud and honored catcher of her worries.  He waits for her words as if trying to collect raindrops in cupped hands.

 

“He was going to shoot me.”

 

Loki's breath slightly hitches.  “Pardon?”

 

“He…” she trails off, eyes lost in the towering buildings beyond.  “The man who took me, and taught me all that I know.  He held a gun to my head and…”

 

Loki sighs inaudibly.  _The man_  is a frequent topic in their talks.  Loki doesn’t know who he is, apart from the fact that he is long dead, and hearing her speak of him _again_ makes him shift uncomfortably on his feet.  He feels guilty for feeling the tiniest pang of jealousy whenever she mentions him.  Granted that the man didn’t have a totally _good_ impact on her, Loki is still concerned about how much space the man takes in Anna’s life even after his death.

 

Still, this is the first time Anna mentioned the man’s attempt to kill her.

 

“Do you know why?” he asks.

 

She shakes her head.  “I can only remember that he was angry with me – for something I did that I cannot recall.  He slapped me first, and then he cocked the gun.  His finger was about to pull the trigger.”

 

Loki’s eyes turn from her to the balcony railing.  Everyone else is so focused on Anna’s present while being completely oblivious to her past.  They seem to forget that she was snatched from home at eight, and then taught to murder machine-like and with finesse for the next fifteen years.  The institution she was confined to did not have the aura of a regular school.  It was strictly a training grounds where weakness and humanity were not allowed.

 

They even took away her ability to cry when she is badly hurt.

 

“It is all right to weep,” he reminds her.

 

She glares at him.  He counters it with a soft, accusing gaze.  She looks away.

 

“What is not all right is to repress it,” he says.  “You cannot keep collecting pain and tears without breaking entirely.”

 

“You are not my mother.”

 

“And if I were, would you listen still?”

 

That shuts her up.

 

Loki sighs.  “I apologize.  I just don’t desire for you to learn the lesson the way I did.  It is a sorrowful journey to acceptance.  I feel that I must mourn through my death so that I may reimburse for every life I have ruined.”

 

“I will have plenty of time to mourn when I am older,” she spats defiantly.  “I do not need to be accepted by other people.”

 

“I do not mean them,” he says.

 

She turns to him, puzzled.

 

“ _I_  still do not accept myself, Anna.  I still have not forgiven myself for everything I have done.  _That_ is what I meant.”

 

Loki hates that he somehow turned the conversation onto him and his shallow problems, but he does feel a tiny bit useful.  Just knowing that he can remind her that there is a way out of all this horribleness brings him immense joy.  For once, he feels like he is being part of the solution.

 

Their eyes linger over one another for what seems like eons.  She can see the universe in the paleness of his eyes; he can see a tiny glimmer of the real _her_ in hers.  She is the first to turn away, flustered in the dark, but he holds her in place.  He wants to give her more than words.

 

“Do you...” his voice drops to a low whisper.  “Do you believe in love, Anna?”

 

He expected her to laugh.  She once told him that love was for the childish and the foolish, a distraction for the more significant tasks in a person’s life.  “Love is not enough,” she had said, a great grin plastered upon her face as though the mere thought of it amused her.  She didn’t repudiate its existence, but she viewed it as a resource to take out easier targets.     _What is love but an invention to make people feel better about themselves?_

 

Except… she doesn’t laugh.  When she replies, her voice is just as low as his, but more solemn.  She sounds uncertain.

 

“I don’t know.”

 

Loki gulps.  His eyes travel from her eyelashes to her lips until he has completely memorized the contours of her side profile.  She is so easy to draw in this lighting – a harsh black contrast to the city’s technicolor background.  He maps her out like it is something he has been doing all his life.  How wonderful it is to be able to touch someone without having to lift a single finger.

 

“What if you meet the right man, who worshiped you and adored you?” he continues, his eyes intense and focused, calculating every letter falling from his lips.  “Who would do anything for you?  What would you do?”

 

A full five seconds passes before she responds.

 

“I would pity him.”

 

For the longest time, Loki has been working to mend his heart, to gather up what remained of it and piece back together what are left to fit.  But when those four words reach his ears, his heart shatters again.  What does one do when the person whom they want to help doesn’t want to help themselves, and breaks one’s heart in the process?  How can one remind them that, _no, you’re wrong, that this is not all there is and you should stop being so hard on yourself_?

 

They remain silent for the rest of the night.  The city forgets about them entirely, meshing them into the banal lull of urban life.  His hand inches closer and closer towards her, but he makes no further move to feel a minuscule part of his skin against hers.  He thinks maybe he would implode if he did, and that is something he cannot do.

 

For now, he will remain the paper onto which her ink bleeds.  He will remain the tape that performs meager attempts at reconnecting her divided asphalt personality.  He will be the scope through which she can view a less saturated picture of the world.

 

And that is how he will keep her alive.

**Author's Note:**

> author wants to say:
> 
> 1) love is real, okay? i believe in love, don't fret.  
> 2) i don't condone violence, especially when the violator actually enjoys what they're doing. that's like a Criminal Minds ep right there. they should seek professional help immediately.  
> 3) i'm not Ukrainian. i googled the names. but i learned quite a bit about Ukraine in the process, so that was cool.


End file.
